Five Smooth Stones (46 page)

The knock on the door was followed by the crisp sound of Hunter Travis's voice: "David. Open up. Now."

He was at the door in spite of himself, unlocking and opening it a short way, but Hunter widened the crack without ceremony, shouldering his way in, and David fell back without speaking. Then Chuck Martin's big figure loomed behind Hunter and he followed his companion into the room.

"Ah! Fire!" said Chuck. From his lips it sounded like "Fa-ahr!" He walked toward the grate, rubbing his hands together. "Sure feels good. Cold outside." He looked at David, and shivered. "Colder in here." He smiled. "My distinguished friend here, Mr. Hunter Travis, he figures to do the talking. Ah told him it wouldn't do no good—"

"Cracker," said Hunter. "Try and speak English. Or American, anyhow."

"Snob," said Chuck. He dropped the accent, and the open, homely, country-boy countenance was suddenly serious. "This time you're going to listen, Stoopid," he said to David. He nodded toward Hunter. "That's why he's here." Some of the lightness of tone returned. "He can talk up a storm when he's a mind to—even if that's not very often. They just put him on the debating team."

"It's late—" said David lamely.

"Not as late as it will be in about ten days or two weeks," said Hunter. David did not bother to ask a question he knew the answer to: What are you talking about? He went to the wall shelf, lifted the alcohol stove, set out mugs, and started measuring instant coffee into each. He'd tried to get rid of well-meaners the day before, and now they were back and he might as well accept it. After a while, if he stayed at Pengard, they'd let him alone. Everyone would let him alone. He noticed that a wind had risen since he came in, and its gusts were shaking the windows. "Lousy outside," he said.

"Lousy inside," said Hunter, and David turned from where he was standing at the wall shelf, his eyes angry.

"Finish with the coffee before you slug him," said Chuck.

Why couldn't they let him alone? He was conscious of an unexpected twinge of pain, and realized that it was the first evidence of what would be a continuing sense of loss at Sudsy's absence. He gave his own big chair to Chuck, and sat on the edge of the bed, cradling his coffee mug in his hands. Hunter remained standing, tall and slim and elegant looking in trench coat over tweeds and a pullover sweater, even his heavy galoshes managing to look like Bond Street. He bent now to take them off. "Seen Sara Kent?" he said as he struggled with them.

"She spotted me on the way to the eye doctor's this afternoon. We had dinner." He wouldn't mention that she'd given him a lift home; one of them might ask about Sudsy's car.

"Did she tell you what's been cooking?" Hunter walked over and put his wet galoshes on the square of linoleum in front of the washbasin.

"She mentioned an idea she had—"

"She wouldn't have told you that the rest of us have been hashing it over too," said Chuck. "You being a mite techy about other people messing in your affairs."

"Who isn't?" snapped David.

"Quite a few intelligent people," said Hunter quietly. "And 'messing' isn't the right word. Now listen. And keep quiet. You aren't the first Negro to be Jim-Crowed here—or anywhere else. You know that. I've felt it—here and a lot of places. As soon as they learn my father's identity."

"God damn it, Hunter, you're just beating your gums together. You're being stupid. Of course I know it. I've lived with it all my life. You haven't. And while we're on the subject, what bright boy or girl suddenly realized there was a nasty thing like prejudice involved? How come all of a sudden someone wakes up?"

Hunter shrugged. "I don't know, dad. Those things just happen."

Chuck said, "Andrus."

David turned to him. "Why Andrus?"

"Because he had me in his private den feeding me jawbreaker cookies for an hour yesterday. He'd heard about it from God knows who. He just might have inadvertently said something to shut them up that indicated he suspected prejudice. And they were off and running. He asked me not to say anything about being there. Don't ever trust li'l ol' Chuck. Here I am with my big mouth flapping."

"Flap it some more," said David. "Hunter said something a minute ago—about my not being the first to be Jim-Crowed here. You mean by that maybe some of the other Negro students got eased out quiet-like, got the same deal?"

"I'm damned sure of it," said Hunter. "You probably gave Sara such a bad time for trying to map out a plan of action you didn't give her chance to tell you."

David wriggled uneasily. "She hinted at it. Suppose you tell me."

"I haven't got details. I don't happen to be thinking about you entirely. And I don't think the rest of us are, either. You're the immediate object of attack, of course, but we're also concerned with whether or not there have been others. It happens to be our fight also. Mine and Chuck's and Sara's and Tom's. And God knows, it's Sudsy's. And after we've exhausted that list we have about eighty percent of the rest of the students. We're all either going to receive a diploma from a scholastically exclusive, supposedly liberal college that in the past has eased out half a dozen or so colored students on trumped-up reasons, or we're going to be graduated from a college that woke up and vindicated those guys. And at the same time we are incidentally going to vindicate a student who is still here."

David was watching Hunter, discomfiture forgotten in his surprise. "You!" he said. "Hunter Travis—the nonparticipant —the objective—the no-stand-on-anything guy—the debater on either side with equal ease—"

"It's probably the first and last time," said Hunter. "I'm not going to muff it."

"If you can't whup us, join us," said Chuck. "And you sure as heck can't whup us."

"And you can't do it alone, you big ape," said Hunter.

David stared into his half-empty mug, said slowly, "I probably won't be around long enough. I don't mean I'm going to quit—"

"You'll be around long enough. I spent the afternoon find ing out, among other things, how an expulsion works around here. Unless you're caught in the act of cold-blooded murder in the middle of the quadrangle or spit in an instructor's eye in class—and I'm not sure even then—it takes time to kick a student out of these halls of learning. Meetings, conferences, and opportunity for the student to be heard, then a meeting of the board and, of course, consideration of the dean's recommendations."

"Democratic as all hell, aren't they?"

Chuck said, "Among other things that Hunter found out was that in a couple of these other cases the dean recommended against expulsion."

"But," said David. "But. The guy quit anyhow—"

"That's what really stinks," said Hunter.

"All right," said David slowly. "All right. I guess it's different if it's a policy you're fighting. So who writes the letters? Sara says that's the plan."

"I will, if it's all right with everyone," said Hunter. "Then they'll have an authentic Negro pedigree. If you write you'll have to make a point of it. I'll try making a few telephone calls, too. We won't be able to track them all down; we don't need them all."

David kept his eyes down, not looking at the others. He thought of what Hunter had just said—that the whole college was involved. It was an argument that left him cold and unconvinced, even though he had agreed to go along. He was surprised that Hunter had even advanced the argument. To him, as a Negro, a liberal tradition was something the whites talked about and the Negro kept still about because if he said anything it would be a dirty word. It was all very high-sounding and noble but it didn't get to him at all. It was northern white tradition, and what had it ever done, liberal as all hell though it might have been for a hundred years, for the Negro as a race, the Negro he knew and had grown up with? Not a Goddamned thing. He'd lived under a white tradition, too, a different kind—one that worked.

Chuck's voice broke into his thoughts. "We think we've spotted Cozy's little helper."

He shrugged. "Hell, so have I. I wasn't sure yesterday, but I've thought it over. It's got to be Clevenger. Who else? He's the only one who was in Emory that afternoon; he's the only guy who's made a pass; and he's the only guy here I've punched in the jaw. And besides all that he's a natural-born son of a bitch. So why don't I just beat the shit out of him and take whatever comes?"

"You can't—" Hunter broke in quickly.

"I don't see why not. But I'm not going to. Sure be a hell of a lot simpler, though. Solve a lot of problems."

"Sure enough would," said Chuck. "So would shooting Senator Joe McCarthy. It's the new problems that would hurt—"

David stood up. "O.K., Hunter. Get going. I'll type the damned letters. I'm faster than any of you. And I'll have a say about what goes into them. But get this: they have to be out soon. Because if they throw me out, I'm staying out. They can get down on their cotton-picking knees and they won't reinstate this boy. No, man!"

"You halfway hope they will, don't you?"

"Yes," said David. He picked up the coffee mugs and started for the basin, his back to them. He was achingly conscious of a girl named Sara Kent, who had no life, no existence for him outside Pengard and, as far as he could see, never would. "Yes," he repeated over the sound of running water as he started rinsing mugs. "Halfway."

***

"Tom's now," said Hunter as he and Chuck walked down the steps of Quimby House. From the corner they could see a light in the window of the study Tom shared with Bob Witherspoon. When they knocked, Tom greeted them in paisley print pajamas that rocked Chuck back on his heels and made Hunter say, "Too old for you, son. You should stick to Dr. Denton's."

Tom's study was as chaotic and disordered as David's room had been neat, and Hunter said: "You guys only have two choices in life. Stand up or go to bed. Where's to sit in this mess?" Tom emptied a chair by the simple expedient of tilting it forward and letting its burden of books and notebooks slither to the floor. Hunter slid into it, legs extended. "Been standing for an hour trying to pound sense into young Champlin."

"Get anywhere?" Tom's eyes were eager.

"Sure did," said Chuck. "I won't go so far as to say we got wholehearted support, but we got him out of his shell far enough to say he'd cooperate to a certain degree."

"That's enough," said Tom.

"Tom, what about Witherspoon?" asked Hunter. "After all, he's the only other person who was there the night David laid Randy out. How far will he go?"

Tom was silent for a moment, his face solemnly concerned. "Not far enough. He's the type who doesn't like involvement."

"He won't lie, will he?"

Tom sighed. "I don't know whether he's lying or not. I sort of worked his conscience over. If it comes to a showdown, he'll say he was asleep; that the first thing he knew the car was stopped and Clevenger was out cold on the ground. Maybe I can work him over some more and come up with something better. But don't count on it."

"So right now it's just your word?" Hunter sounded doubtful.

"Look, dad, Clevenger knows. That rat knows I'm telling the truth. I didn't see any actual pass, but I sure as hell heard what he said. What I don't know is how in hell he's been spreading the word."

"I think I do," said Chuck. "Part of it, anyhow. I think he asks the question first—'Is the rumor true—' and all that. Then he says—and I heard him say this just after supper— that he feels these things shouldn't be talked around if they aren't true—but, of course, one can't tell—it's pretty well known that homosexuality is almost a way of life with the Negro—of course he couldn't say about Champlin; he seemed a very clean-cut type—although he and Sutherland
had
been closer than usual—I got in on the act then and tried to shut him up. Made things worse, I suppose."

"Why, God damn his stinking little soul to hell," said Hunter slowly. "I didn't think even that guy could get that low. Now—what do we do if we pin the story on Clevenger? This is a separate deal from finding out about these others. After we pin it on Clevenger—you'll never be able to pin it on Goodhue, even if we do think he's encouraging it or something."

Chuck, who had been half sitting on the edge of the desk, stood up, running a big hand through hair already standing upright in random spikes and tufts. He lumbered to the window and back, to stand in the center of the room, hands in the pockets of his corduroys. "Look," he said. "I reckon it's time I said what I've been wondering whether to say or not. I don't like shooting off my face about a guy unless I have proof, and I'd be the last to be able to come up with proof in this case. But I'll tell you flat what I think—I said 'think'—and that is that Cozy's as queer as our Randy. Queerer." Tom's eyes widened. "Yeah? No kidding? You aren't—" Hunter interrupted, leaning forward in his chair. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "Wait. Wait. You could be right, Chuck."

Tom said, "Cripes! If this is true it complicates things—"

"Sure does," said Chuck. "And I might as well go on, now my big mouth's open. I've got another hunch that complicates the complications. Right now I think our boy Randy is his pride and joy—"

"What gives you that idea?" asked Hunter.

"I don't know. I just plumb don't know. I see them together a lot. It's just—heck, I suppose it's something you sort of smell, like a hound dog smells a rabbit. And Randy was with the dean the day David came back after Thanksgiving weekend, back from putting Suds on the train. I saw him leaving Cozy's study. And he's asked Randy to tea. Randy told me that just before the stink came up—"

"All last year he kept asking me, but I never went because —" Tom stopped abruptly, moaned softly. "Oh, my God, no!"

Hunter was laughing now, and Tom said, "Shut up, damn it!"

"I'm remembering," said Hunter. "You're the type. I'm remembering the guys he's been especially nice to. The ones that got invitations to tea and had no trouble switching courses and stuff. Let's see—last year, Parsons, Anderson, Cramer, Holt; this year—Sessions and Terhune. Now Randy. He's a little different in type. Maybe Cozy's getting old enough to need variety—"

"How many of these guys do you think he made it with?" asked Tom.